Twenty-five

Why did it have to be Halloween?

As I sit in front of my mirror, braiding my hair, I tell myself that I’d have been nervous about introducing Jonah to my friends at any time. This is the next big get-together. Ergo this is when I take him to hang out with the whole gang.

But Halloween seems so . . . silly. Like the kind of thing Jonah wouldn’t be into at all.

Then again, I am into Halloween. The crazier the theme party, the more I like it: That’s the New Orleans in me. Might as well find out if Jonah can deal.

Just as I finish buckling my Mary Janes, I hear Jonah’s sedan pull up out front. I open the door to greet him, and when I see him step out of his car, I have to grin. “You wore a costume!”

“That’s the whole idea of a costume party, right?” Jonah pauses, glancing down at the scrubs he’s got on. The pale blue, loose-fitting pants and top don’t disguise the phenomenal physique underneath; he looks just like a doctor. A hot doctor. The surgical cap over his dark hair is the finishing touch.

“Yeah, we’re supposed to dress up. I just didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“Rosalind borrowed these for me from the hospital supply cabinet.” He says this as if it explains everything. Probably it does. I can hear her telling him you can’t go to a costume party in your everyday clothes without coming across as a total killjoy. “Nothing as elaborate as what you’ve got on.”

“Oh, this old thing.” My getup was sold as “Oktoberfest Fräulein”—short poofy skirt, peasant blouse pulled down off the shoulders, high socks, and faux-Teutonic embroidery around the edges. The pigtails aren’t long enough, or blonde, but I left most of my wigs at my parents’ house, so this will have to do.

Jonah laughs. “You wear this often?”

“At least a couple times a year since I bought it my first semester in college.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

“If I didn’t already know you’d never lived in New Orleans, this would prove it,” I say as we walk to his car. “Between Halloween, Mardi Gras, and various theme parties, you need a few costumes in case of emergency. A lot of people there have what we call ‘costume closets,’ so you can put together an outfit or help a friend.”

“Do you have a costume closet?”

I shrug. “Just a pith helmet, a couple cloaks, a couple wigs, some go-go boots, and this.”

“New Orleans,” he says, as if it’s another planet. He’s not that far wrong, actually. His eyes drift toward the cleavage revealed by the tugged-down peasant top. “You look sexy as hell, by the way.”

“Thanks. So do you.” It’s all I can do to keep from fondling his ass right here in the driveway. I take pity on my neighbors and restrain myself.

It’s a relief to hear him laugh, and for conversation to flow freely between us. In the days since we got back, Jonah’s coolness has lingered. He only e-mailed twice: once to make sure I had settled in well, and then again to accept my invitation to Arturo and Shay’s party.

He had a lot to do, I remind myself. Remember how you had to bust ass all week to get back up to speed?

True. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something has changed between us, and maybe not for the better.

Arturo opens the door in his Star Trek redshirt getup. I get a big hug, and Jonah gets a handshake. Not the warm, half-hug, hetero-guy handshake good friends often share—more businesslike—but surely Arturo’s grin makes up for it. “Good to see you again, Jonah. What’s your poison?”

“I’m driving tonight,” he replies.

“Which means I get to have a glass of wine,” I interject.

Arturo laughs. “Not a beer? It would match your costume better.”

“Not unless you’ve got the steins to put it in.” With that, I lead Jonah into the party.

Already a large crowd has gathered. Arturo and Shay can’t entertain quite as extravagantly as Carmen does, but their friends trust them to provide a good time. (Plus, to judge by the umpteen six-packs and bottles lying around, it looks like at least half the people here contributed to the refreshments.) Décor is at a minimum—mostly a couple of white drapes in the windows stained with “bloody” handprints and slash marks. But a few candles burn here and there, and the stereo is thumping with a Latin beat. There’s that creep Mack wearing a neon-green “pimp suit,” complete with zebra-striped lapels. The costume is as repulsive as the guy himself. Carmen, on the other hand, looks radiant—a long skirt, peasant blouse, and embroidered shawl in brilliant colors, her thick black hair braided atop her head and pinned with paper flowers, and for the finishing touch, a penciled-in unibrow to make her a perfect Frida Kahlo. I spy Kip in the corner, one of two guys dressed up as punk rockers. To my delight, the other one turns out to be Ryan the bartender from a few weeks ago. Kip must not have wasted any time after getting Ryan’s number.

As Arturo leads us toward the bar area, I catch sight of the person I’ve been most nervous about seeing. At least his getup gives me a ready opening line. “That does not count as a costume.”

“I beg to differ,” Geordie says. He’s in full Scots regalia: kilt, high socks with ribbon, velvet evening jacket, and even a sporran hanging in front. Like any true Scotsman, he somehow manages to look manlier while wearing a skirt. “Yes, back in Inverness, this would be evening wear appropriate for any wedding or formal function. Here in the U.S.? It’s a costume.”

“If you say so.” Deep breath. “Geordie, I think you might have met Jonah Marks, from the earth sciences department? Jonah, this is Geordie Hilton. He’s getting his LLM here in Austin.”

“Pleasure,” Geordie says, with enough gusto that it passes for sincerity.

Jonah nods. “Vivienne speaks highly of you.”

Geordie smiles in surprise. “Does she, now? Then she’s being too kind.”

With his impeccable sense of timing, Arturo appears with a glass of wine in one hand and a can in the other. “This is for you, and can you take the ginger ale to Shay?”

“We’d love to,” I say, seizing the graceful exit Arturo has provided. “We’ll catch you later, okay, Geordie?”

Geordie smiles, somewhat stiffly, then turns to start pouring himself more wine.

In the town house’s living room, Shay holds court from the sofa. She’s lying there comfortably, while different guests come by to say hi or chat for a while. Her face lights up when she sees Jonah and me. Or maybe it’s the ginger ale. “Tell me honestly,” she says as I hand her the can. “Isn’t this the most boring costume ever?”

“Of course not,” I tell her. “The pregnant nun is a classic.”

She sighs as she pushes the black wimple back from her face. “I was going to go in drag as Santa, or maybe Homer Simpson if I could find the mask. But in the end Arturo just had to grab something from the costume shop. And hullo there, Jonah.”

“Hi,” he says, and his smile is easier than it’s been the rest of the night—even with me. “We’ve missed you in the department.”

“Have you?” Shay’s cheeks pink with pleasure. “Sometimes I think they don’t know what to make of me.”

“They talk about hiring you full time, when you’re ready for that,” Jonah says. “Don’t tell them I told you.”

“Really?” Shay beams even more when Jonah nods, and finally I relax a bit. At least one of my friends can get along with Jonah just fine.

I decide to help things along. “Turns out Jonah is a good friend of Dr. Campbell’s.”

Her eyes widen. “My doctor?”

“Don’t worry. Rosalind would never betray a patient’s confidential information.” Jonah grins, fierce as ever, but at the moment not intimidating at all. “Now, the same rules don’t apply to me. So if you want to hear any embarrassing stories about her—”

“Spill it!” Shay starts to laugh. “She makes me tell her how I poop. So I need to even the playing field.”

Jonah makes a face, but a good-natured one. Then they’re deep in an anecdote about the time Rosalind talked Jonah into going on a hike, then sprained her ankle at a point where he had to carry her piggyback about six miles back to the car.

Finally I can really relax. I mix and mingle, never losing sight of Jonah for long. Mostly he stays by Shay’s side; after a while, Arturo joins them, and as they talk, Arturo’s smile broadens. He’s winning them over.

Carmen whispers, “He’s hotter than I remembered.”

“Oh yeah,” I say.

“The sex is great, isn’t it? I can tell just looking at him.”

“You have no idea.”

Geordie keeps his distance, never straying far from the bar as he flirts with every unaccompanied girl who shows up. I wish he didn’t feel so awkward, but hey. Maybe he’ll find someone, and we can finally complete the last stage of “moving on.”

The only dark spot on the evening comes when I see Carmen and Arturo exchange a few sharp words. He frowns, and she hugs herself the way she does when she’s feeling hurt. But I don’t interfere. Sibling relationships can be complicated.

I think of Chloe and inwardly groan. Can they ever.

When I cycle back to Jonah, he’s completely at ease—the way he was in Scotland on our best nights. I sit next to him, near Shay’s feet, and drop a kiss on his shoulder. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“More or less,” Jonah replies, like he can’t quite believe it. “You have good friends. I’ve always thought that was the best measure of a person.”

“Never looked at it that way before—but you’re right.” How better to judge someone than by the people they choose to have around them, the ones who love them best? “So when do I get to spend time with Rosalind?”

“Soon.” Jonah turns to kiss my cheek. His eyes are gentle as he looks at me, and my heart turns over in my chest as he touches my hand. Everything’s all right between us again. Maybe it always was. At any rate, I can stop freaking out.

I whisper, “Let’s not stay too late. I wouldn’t want to tire Shay out.” A wicked smile spreads across my face. “I want to tire you out.”

“—and we’re leaving.” Jonah gets to his feet.

We’re almost to the door before I run into Kip, who has sprayed his hair into a pink faux-hawk for the occasion. He’s had even more to drink than Geordie, which is why he folds both Jonah and me in a sloppy embrace. “My darlings. My most surprising lovebirds. How are you?”

“Great.” Gingerly I try to extricate myself from Kip’s arm. “Not as good as you, though.”

“He’s sex on a stick, isn’t he?” Kip throws a coquettish glance over his shoulder at Ryan, who waves. “As are you, Professor Marks. Oh, no need to make that straight-boy terror face. I’m well aware I’m not your flavor.”

Jonah is clearly at a loss for what to say. I don’t blame him. Finally he comes up with, “Okay.”

“So glad it’s all working out! Scotland and the rest of it.” As Kip lets us go, I breathe a sigh of relief. Too soon. Because the last thing Kip says to Jonah before he staggers off is, “Shouldn’t have even bothered playing spy.”

Instantly Jonah’s expression darkens. I take his hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

But as we walk away from the house, Jonah demands, “What did he mean by that?”

I want to say I don’t know—but that’s too direct a lie. “Kip looked up all this stuff about you when he realized you and I might have something going on.”

Jonah stops in his tracks. “How do you know about it? Did he tell you later?”

Time to confess completely. “He printed out all these stories about your family and showed them to me. I read some. It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“If it wasn’t a big deal, why didn’t you tell me about it?” His eyes are blazing.

I might submit to Jonah completely in the bedroom, but in real life? It’s a different story. “Because it’s awkward as hell! Because I thought you might overreact—no idea where I got that from. So you grew up in a big house! Who cares?”

“That’s not all you read.”

“No. Do you really want to talk about the rest right now?”

“I don’t want to talk about it at all.”

“Then why are you angry with me for not saying anything?”

We glare at each other for a long moment. Then Jonah’s hand closes over my forearm, hard enough to bruise. “We’re going to my place,” he says, his voice low and rough. “And we’re going to play.”

My entire body responds. Arousal lances through me so sharply I gasp. “Yes. Let’s play.”

•   •   •

We say almost nothing on the drive. It helps preserve the angry mood.

At one point, though, Jonah mutters, “You know you can say the safe word at any moment.”

Silver. “Of course I know.”

He’s going to give it to me rough. Right now I want him so badly I can taste it.

Up until now, I’ve had no idea where Jonah lives. He drives us into the heart of downtown, to the edge of Lake Austin. A few high-rises here host luxury apartments, the kind of accommodations most students can’t afford—or most professors, either. I’ve never even walked inside one. Jonah grabs a bronze-colored card from his sun visor and buzzes us into the parking garage almost without slowing down.

All the vehicles here are sports cars, status symbols; Jonah’s sedan looks modest compared to the Mercedeses and Jaguars parked in each spot. Yet one garage is very like another. Once we’re parked, we walk through the same dark, echoing concrete you’d see anywhere else.

He grabs my arm again, pulling me along faster. “It’s quiet. This late, nobody would see. Should I fuck you here?”

It’s Halloween. People will be out and about—which means they’ll be coming in at all hours. “No. We shouldn’t—”

Jonah pushes me against the nearest pylon, hard enough that I have to steady myself to stay on my feet. “I’ll fuck you here if I want to. It’s not up to you, is it?”

The game has intensified. We’re working out something through our fantasy, even though real anger should probably never play a role in what we do. But that edge of anger only makes me want him more. “No,” I whisper. “It’s up to you.”

Apparently satisfied, Jonah drags me with him into the building.

He turns a key so we can ride the elevator to the penthouse floor. When the doors slide open, they reveal the large, shadowed space of his apartment; Jonah is the only one on the top level.

So I can scream or struggle all I want. No one will hear.

“Take your goddamned clothes off,” Jonah says. He starts stripping off his scrubs, right there in front of the elevator door.

I obey. The space is too dark for me to see much, besides the city lights of Austin shining through the windows. I can tell his apartment is enormous, though, open-concept—so I’m standing in the middle of a vast, murky room I don’t know. Trembling, I ditch my shoes and socks, push my skirt down to the floor, then lift my peasant blouse over my head. Now I’m only in a strapless bra and panties.

Before I can remove those too, Jonah steps close to me and grips both my arms, holding me fast. He’s stark naked, his erection jutting between us. The dim light from the city outside shows me little more than how big he is, how muscular—how futile it would be for me to fight him. That, and the anger in his eyes.

Tonight, for the first time, Jonah’s fury is absolutely real.

Surely this is when he’ll start calling me names. Slut. Whore. Bitch. In my mind I can hear his voice growling those words.

But tonight I learn that when Jonah is truly angry, he falls completely silent.

His silence is scarier than anything he could ever say.

The hardwood floor slams against my knees when he shoves me down. He grabs my hair, hard, to hold me in place as he pushes his cock inside my mouth. If he would slow down, I’d try to suck him off, but nothing I do is enough for Jonah. He keeps thrusting, relentless, going deep enough that I cough and sputter for breath around his cock.

Jonah could hurt me. He wants to hurt me. Say silver, or snap your fingers. Make him stop.

I don’t.

The sheer force Jonah uses on me stuns me. All I can do is kneel there, mouth open, letting myself be used. I whimper in both fear and desire. That’s when he pulls out and yanks me to my feet again.

“Jonah—” But I can’t think of what to say, and he doesn’t give me a chance to say it. Instead he pushes me forward until I make contact with something low and leather. A bench or ottoman, maybe.

He tugs me against his chest and whispers the first words he’s said since the garage. “On your knees.”

By now I’m shaking. But I do what Jonah demands. I climb onto the bench and kneel there, waiting. Everything around me is darkness.

I feel something slide around my arms—a belt, I realize, as the leather tightens. Jonah has bound my wrists behind me. Never before has he bound me; the thrill of fear I feel only sharpens my desire. By now my fear and arousal are so overpowering that it’s as if I’m drunk. He yanks back on the belt, nearly knocking me off balance, and I cry out. His hand slides down the center of my back, a touch that I know means possession.

Jonah owns me now, and he knows it.

He pushes between my shoulder blades, so that I nearly topple over. When I’m bent like that in front of him, one of his hands seizes my hip and he shoves his cock inside.

Jonah takes me with a ferocity I’ve never experienced before. One of his hands closes around the belt, holding me in position by my arms; the other releases my hip to fist in my hair, and he pulls back hard. Jonah pumps me, so fast and so hard that my breasts shake and my entire body starts to sweat. My knees and wrists ache—my shoulders feel like they’re being pulled back too far—and yet there’s nothing I love more than the slap of his body against mine, the feel of his cock filling me up. Jonah vents his full fury on me, inside me.

Yes, I think, fuck me. Punish me. Make me take it.

Desire sharpens inside me. Peaks. The darkness seems to be turning red, and my heart thumps so hard I think I can hear the rushing of blood in my ears. Ragged cries escape my lips; I couldn’t hold them back if I tried.

And then, in a blinding rush of pleasure, I come. For the first time in my life, my orgasm makes me scream.

Jonah doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He just fucks me harder, so hard he must want to break me—but then he comes too, shouting out as he pumps deep inside me and stiffens. We spend a couple seconds locked together, too stunned to move.

Then he slides out of me, hot and wet. The belt around my arms loosens and falls away. I try to get to my feet, but I can’t; I’m still shaking too hard for that. Instead I slump onto the nearby couch.

Jonah stands above me, a black, featureless shadow. Everything I ever told myself about fearing this man comes back to me, and I wonder what happens after this. If he’s still angry, if what he just did to me isn’t enough—

But my eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and I see an expanse of white on a nearby brick wall. A square, in a silver frame.

The etching. The man’s hands cradling the dove. That’s what I’m looking at.

And in that instant I remember that whatever twisted fantasies bind me to Jonah, our connection goes beyond that. Or it can, if we figure out how.

I whisper, “Hold me?”

Jonah pauses, but then he sits by my side and folds me in the warmth of his embrace. He is as gentle now as he was cruel a minute before.

Slowly he lowers us to lie on the sofa, and I curl next to his chest. I say nothing else, and I don’t look at Jonah’s face. Instead I stare up at the etching, trying despite the darkness to make out the lines of the dove’s fragile wings, and the man’s strong hands.